Beginnings
by SeungSeiRan
Summary: Perhaps all names are supposed to be earned, in actuality. Steve-centric.


As you guys may, or may not, know, my fic, _To Breathe Again_, was deleted for violating FF guidelines. And while I'm sure that I did nothing wrong, it's no use crying over spilt milk. As they say, the deed is done. However, if you thought that I was gonna stop writing, you are _sorely _mistaken ;). Anyways, until the next H/J idea pops into my head, enjoy this one. Think of this as a 'thank you' gift for your lovely reviews and support.

_Italics _are memories.

* * *

The sound of bells ringing induced a plethora of memories in his mind. The alarm which had awoken him from blissful slumber this morning. Changing of classes at his previous schools, one form of boredom to the next. The metallic 'clang' signaling the beginning of another round…

Trying his best not to look like 'the new kid', he slung his bag carelessly over one shoulder and entered the classroom.

A new school year equaled a new beginning. And hopefully, a new him.

He chose a seat near the back, somewhere in the middle. Close enough to the epicenter of class gossip, far enough to avoid a teacher's scrutinizing eyes. Student after student brushed past him, all bedecked in the same uniform with little variations. Pastel headbands and glittery scrunchies for the girls, gelled hair and unbuttoned colors for the blokes. All the same. Yet different. This didn't bode well for him. He didn't like being different.

Awkwardness crawled beneath his skin. It heated his cheeks and enhanced his already sharp sense of hearing.

"Oi! Over here!"

"Great to see ya!"

"Can't wait until footie starts – "

"Seen the legs on _that _one, eh?"

Bits and pieces of conversations which brought back that feeling of déjà vu.

Teenage boys. Just like him. He didn't _have _to feel so out-of-place. But he did anyway…

A tall, lanky man in a dull-grey suit entered the room and surveyed the numerous reunited cliques and gangs with some degree of interest. His hair was a sandy-brown color and thinning at the scalp. His eyes were a dark shade of brown and seemed quite intelligent. Obviously, he could only be the form teacher.

"Ahem." The man cleared his throat.

When he received no significant response, he tried again.

Unfortunately, it was to no avail.

"QUIET!!"

The class immediately took note and settled into their seats. A frizzy-haired girl smiled in satisfaction at the remarkable pitch of her voice and turned to face their astounded teacher who quickly struggled to regain his composure.

"Ah yes, thank you. Um, good morning."

"Good morning, Mr. … " the class paused for lack of a name.

"Philips. I'm Mr. Philips."

"Mr. Philips."

Steve placed his chin in his cupped palm and hoped that he gave off that same nonchalantly cool aura that the guy with the dreadlocks sitting in front of him had.

"So, it's a new year and… "

Mr. Philips must be new. The poor fellow was literally grasping for words.

"I'm your form teacher."

Steve rolled his eyes. What a surprise…

"I hope you'll all find your lessons enjoyable and… and… "

_Oh God…_

"Well… uh… why don't you all introduce yourselves first? And tell us a bit about you. Like your hobbies, your interests, your family – "

A jolt of fear ran up his spine.

* * *

_His ears still stung from being boxed in by that kid he'd accidentally run into. Even so, it didn't stop him from visiting this place. The smell of the leather training-bags and the shimmer of the static in the sunlight had an oddly revitalizing effect on him._

_He'd snuck in as usual. Hunched behind the empty receptionist desk, he watched as the men pummeled away furiously, releasing their pent-up frustrations and sorrows. Their grunts and ragged gasps echoed throughout the gym. He absorbed their emotions like a leech sucked blood. It made feel alive. It made him forget that he was just another skinny eleven year old in an orphanage who got pummeled on a regular basis._

_A rough hand on his shoulder shook him from his reverie. A tall, heavy-set man with grey stubble on his square chin scowled right down at him. _

"_What's this, eh? A little intruder?"_

_He wasn't sure what that word meant. But it couldn't be anything good._

"_Well?! What're you here for? Is your father here?"_

"_No."_

_That was the truth._

"_You lost?"_

"_No."_

"_Then what?" The grizzled man gave his shoulder another shake._

"_I… "_

_He had to think fast._

"… _wanted to learn."_

_The shaking instantly stopped. The man released him with an unreadable expression in his eyes._

"_You – "_

_Steve felt an accusing finger jab his chest._

" – _want to learn how to box?"_

_Nodding seemed like the proper thing to do. Still staring hard, the man turned and beckoned him to follow._

_They walked past by the members, the smell of sweat permeating the air and their ragged breathing roaring in his ears. Steve wondered if this was how prisoners about to be executed felt. That creepy-crawly feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to throw up but he'd probably get another whipping for his misery. On the other hand, maybe another whipping wouldn't be so bad as compared to what probably awaited him._

_The man pulled out a key with a silver key-chain attached to it. He shoved it into a keyhole of an office-door. _

"_Name's Graham. Mark Graham."_

_The door unlocked with a click._

_To put it mildly, the 'office' was a mess. Papers littered the desk and there were more than a couple of coffee mugs that wanted a good scrub. The place smelled musty, like it hadn't been aired in weeks. The frames containing golden and bronze title belts were covered in sheets of dust. No doubt about it, this place was neglected. Steve caught a glimpse of his own blue eyes reflected in a dusty window._

"_What's yer name?"_

"_Steve."_

"_Steve as in Steven? Or Stephane like that ponce who flounced in the other day?"_

"_Just Steve."_

_Graham started pulling out drawers and slamming them back in again like he was looking for something. "Last name?"_

"_Haven't got one."_

_This made him stop and look up. "Whaddya mean 'haven't got one'? We've all got one."_

"_Not me."_

"_Well, then… how about your parents?"_

"_Haven't got any."_

"… _Ah." _

* * *

It was a wonder that he'd been let back in the next day. Graham hadn't really come across as the sympathetic type. Training had proved tougher than expected but it was alright. He finally belonged somewhere. And no amount of sore knuckles, bloody noses, and black eyes could take that away.

But here, he was an outsider again. And not because he was new…

He listened to what the red-haired boy a few seats ahead was saying to the class.

"The name's David Atwood. Me Dad owns _Atwood's_, you know? The high-end restaurant near Oxfam? It's just me and the parental units. No snot-nosed siblings. I like swimming, mountain-biking, out-doorsy stuff in general."

Steve stifled a derisive snort of laughter at the deliberate poshness of the accent. What a wannabe. He could spot one a mile away.

Now for the dilemma: how to get around the 'family' question?

How was one supposed to say that they'd been to eight foster homes over the past three years? And had run away from each of them? How was one supposed to detail the ups and downs of living in an orphanage for the first twelve years of their life?

How in the world was he supposed to explain all this without sounding like a psychological screw-up?

Bloody hell, he'd already had enough visits to the therapist. The first time had been some time after he'd run off the third time. He recalled that the lady had been annoyingly cheery with her sing-song Welsh accent and her silly Rubik's cube which he'd solved in exactly two minutes and fifteen seconds. She'd asked him many annoying questions which he hadn't felt like answering.

Simply put, he'd run because he hadn't belonged anywhere. He couldn't see the point of trying to force a triangle into a square-shaped hole and he'd told her so. Judging from that pinched expression on her sallow face, she hadn't bought into his reasoning.

For the moment, all he needed was himself and his boxing-gloves. He'd be alright.

Sort of…

* * *

_Dear diary,_

_I'm writing this because my shrink, Ms. Winston, told me to. She thinks it shall help me 'reconnect with my feelings'. Rather stupid since she's going to read it anyway so there's really no point in me doing this. Diaries are for crybaby girls who hate their parents and fantasize about yobs with crew-cuts._

_I am not a girl._

_I am not a crybaby._

_I am not a yob nor do I even aspire to become one._

_I don't have any parents to hate._

_I don't like crew-cuts._

_The reason I ran away from the Peters is that I don't like them or their slobbery bulldog much. The boy kept on prodding me with a cue-stick and calling me 'Stewie'(which isn't my name, in case you forgot). The girl kept on insisting that I wear a frilly pink apron and a baby-blue bonnet so that I could join her and the cat in their tea-party. The lady always went on and on about her aches and pains which made me feel very uncomfortable._

_I ran away on the day that the cue-stick turned into a whip which resulted in the boy's broken nose. I suppose I'm sorry for that but I didn't mean to stay around to bear the brunt of Mr. Peters' nasty temper._

_I ran off from the Boltons because they would wash out my mouth with detergent if I forgot to say my P's and Q's or if I forgot to say my prayers before I went to bed._

_I ran off from the Marshes because they didn't seem to like that I'd trespassed into their lives._

_It's like I'm a lost jigsaw piece and I don't fit in anywhere…_

_I shall not write in this stupid notebook (which isn't even a proper diary) just because you want me to. This is my first and last entry._

_Live with it._

* * *

Lord, that frizzy-haired girl (Gemma something) could talk. It was like a plug had been removed from her brain and the contents were swirling out of her mouth. Steve honestly wondered if she actually thought anyone cared about her uncle in South Africa, her crocheting, or her pet iguana named 'Sally'. Poor, delusional girl.

What did he like to do? Boxing, for sure. Video-games were nice enough and so were books.

He was nothing remarkable.

What were his favorite subjects? That was definitely something he would be asked. Science, he supposed. It wasn't as dull as Economics or Math. Not that he was totally useless at the latter two, though.

When was his birthday? He wasn't too sure but he'd been left at the orphanage as a newborn on October the tenth so that should be it.

It wouldn't be soon before his social standing would hang in the balance.

He just hoped that no one would see him tremble.

* * *

"_Heard you ran off again."_

"_Yeah."_

_Steve didn't like talking during sparring. Especially about his personal life._

"_Now as much as I don't mind you crashing in my flat – "_

_The blond sighed in annoyance as his coach continued._

" – _you've gotta get your act together."_

"_Hm."_

_Graham grabbed his wrist before he could aim another punch, meeting his eyes with an icy stare._

"_Steve. You need a home."_

"_No, I don't."_

"_A proper home with a proper family."_

"_After what I've been through, I beg to differ."_

"_It's no fun being a vagabond, d'you know that?"_

_Steve wrenched his wrist free from the grasp before replying with much sarcasm, "I don't think I do. Was that during the glory days of those dusty title-belts?"_

_Anticipating a blow to the head, he prepared to dodge. The hit never came._

_Instead, the former champion shook his head and sighed. "Aye, those were the days."_

_Wonderful, now he felt guilty for being rude. It would've been better had Graham just cuffed him as usual. The older man's silence disturbed him. He wondered how much Graham had been through. How much did he have to sacrifice?_

_Had he missed out on something? Or someone?_

_"The fame, money, women, it's never enough." Graham walked stiffly towards the ropes enclosing the ring and leaned against them, sighing in disdain. "Never enough."_

_Steve remained silent._

_"But they called me 'the Fox'."_

_"Pardon?"_

_Graham chuckled briefly. "The Fox, lad. Yeh've heard of wolves, tigers, lions, and whatnot these new blokes camm themselves. D'you know why they do that?"_

_"Because... it's intimidation. A fancy moniker makes them appear... more powerful, stronger." Steve answered carefully._

_"You'd be correct in saying that. Now why pick wolves and tigers when yeh could've gone with lamb or sheep?"_

_"Lambs and sheep get eaten. Wolves and tigers are pretty much on top of the food-chain."_

_Graham smiled wryly._

_"True, very true. A wolf is known for brute strength, raw power. A deadly and unmerciful opponent. Got the fight measure of glamour and sex appeal too, don'cha think so?"_

_"Quite, yeah."_

_"A wolf may be a fighter. But a fox is a survivor. A fox is an underdog, not much brute force goin' on for him. But they don't call it sly for nothin'. Foxes keep their wits about 'em, they do. They may get tossed about like a piece of hide but in the end... "_

_A snap of his fingers established the truth of his beliefs._

_"... they survive. And that's what we both are. Survivors."_

* * *

A survivor.

He liked that word. Suited him fine.

His pen rolled across his desk and onto the floor. As he bent over to pick it up, he caught a glimpse of a group of tardy-looking boys snickering at his blond hair and blue eyes. He smiled politely back at them and shrugged the off the incident.

Ah, the cheap laughs some people gained from stereotyping. Fair hair and light eyes probably meant you were Mummy's sweet cherub. Now if he had dark hair and eyes, he assumed that he'd give off the impression of a sulky, guitar-strumming slacker. And perhaps every blonde lass with a substantial bosom and mini-skirt was a whore-for-hire.

Speaking of which...

The girl two seats from the right had _nice_ legs. He could see them stretched out under her desk.

He suddenly remembered the list.

Pulling it out from his pocket discreetly, he reread it once more to himself with a secret grin.

_Things to accomplish by the time I turn 21_

_1. World Boxing Championship_

_2. An Oxford scholarship_

_3. A twilight blue Maserati_

_4. Lush apartment (all to myself)_

_5. Brazilian supermodel girlfriend_

Hey, a guy could dream, could he?

Realizing it was his turn, he stood up straight in his seat and flashed a winning smile at his new class-mates before him.

_"Foxes keep their wits about 'em. That's why they're survivors."_

"Hello. I'm Steve Fox. Pleased to meet you."


End file.
